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  • Veteran Poet - 3,020 Points Is It Poetry (6/17/2014 11:36:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply
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    When Lilly Kisses Rose

    When lilly kisses rose
    and lilly I did know
    and trees I thought
    grew very deep
    and lived
    within the forest.

    And green
    the hay is sweet
    and brown
    dry moss cries

    And lilies white
    remind the sky
    blue cotton
    clouds they swirl.

    There grew the two.
    so dear
    most thought.

    Short breath
    two centered

    And how
    them both
    I stood
    once near
    their hearts
    too far.

    And when
    I know
    roses grow
    and pressed
    so hard
    was I.

    And cups
    of milk
    I loaned to
    and spice.

    Sugar sweets
    they made
    from them
    now to know
    both why.

    lilly bridged
    sweet roses
    bank as
    water rushes

    Replies for this message:
    • Veteran Poet - 3,020 Points Marlin Nightingale (6/19/2014 3:23:00 PM) Post reply

      Nice! Simply.. fascinating.. It dances in and out of my understanding. Defines some and leaves some to be defined.

  • Rookie Debra Robinson (6/14/2014 7:30:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Arlington National Cemetery

    In the rolling hills of Arlington
    White headstones stand row by row
    In a sacred trust bestowed
    Upon those hallowed grounds
    Through the decades, the battles and wars

    The day is done, gone the sun
    The bugler stands alone.

    In a demonstration of an ethos
    A horse-drawn caisson will pass
    Among the headstones to a final resting place
    With the clicking of heels in the distance
    Paces matched stride for stride
    At the tomb of the unknowns

    The day is done, gone the sun
    The bugler stands alone.

    Straight line formations
    Where valor has come to rest
    For these soldiers
    Who through the eyes of history
    Their last call sounded
    Interned and at rest
    Surrendering to the emotion

    The day is done, gone the sun
    The bugler stands alone.

    © June 14,2014

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Isaac Dale (6/15/2014 12:38:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      It reads well, don't you think? Some memorable lines. I'm not finished with familiarity with it yet (a good many reads, for me) , but I like enough to do so. The refrain is call-like. ... an ethos.. ... more

  • Rookie Joeseph Espinoa (6/14/2014 2:45:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    persisting throughout the day,
    why is it that i feel this way?

    slowly decaying;
    eroded by time.
    surely there is more
    to this life of mine,

    outside of
    routine repetition?

    yet as if without delay,
    felicity leaves the gray,
    amongst the stagnence
    is something alive:
    satisfaction in,
    most barren disguise.

    expectation eventually
    drives dissapointment.

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Debra Robinson (6/14/2014 7:41:00 PM) Post reply

      This feels a bit confusing and incomplete to me. I want to participate in the journey but I just don't get a sense of direction from it. I think there is very good stuff here, please don't think it' ... more

  • Rookie - 1 Points Matthew Addai (6/12/2014 12:58:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Inner Peace-

    I have always been envious of those from whole families embodying wealth and fame
    And though I say otherwise, these things I do secretly wish to attain
    To cover up the emptiness that lies in my soul
    As I drift from place to place not quite knowing where to go

    I am a loner this fact I solemly do not deny
    And my fear of failure keeps me from attempting to try
    To the fullest of my ability, when I can easily achieve
    All the things I desire, if I begun to believe

    These last four years have opened my eyes to some cold truths
    Uncovered through digging deep into my mind and its roots
    Of my constant struggle to be honest and true
    Sometimes rather unconsciously seeking to be right and cool

    Judgement of others reflects judgement of yourself
    Whilst also reflecting the state of your own mental health
    Regarding thoughts you have or things you’ve felt
    Whether these reflect on the surface or are kept below the belt

    I am afraid to be open and it impacts my connections
    Mostly to women, causing me to fear unprecedented rejections
    When merely this may simply be triggered by the menial reflections
    Of fear, its power and the resultant mental defections.

    Yet I know myself to see the beauty and qualities in all people
    For no man or woman is inherently good or evil
    We are merely products of our experiences, and this makes us equal
    Disregarding experience and media influences which may often be lethal

    My opinions shift between conservative and liberal
    And perhaps that why I may seem too opinionated and stuck in the middle
    Words may come in the mix of kind yet also cynical
    And I still struggle to solve this confusing riddle

    Deep down we all strive for a personal identity
    One for which through our actions speaks to others saying “remember me”
    Being as successful, content, and as grateful as can ever be
    With our voices in unison shouting “God I thank you for the live you have given me! ”

    copyright (c) 2014 (just in case lol)
    Matthew Addai

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 1 Points Debra Robinson (6/14/2014 7:44:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Love the topic and concept. Seems to drift between tenses and meters. Broken thoughts and rhythms.... Nice none the less. Thank you for sharing!

  • Rookie - 64 Points Godfrey Morris (6/11/2014 9:24:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply


    We who are called morals
    were tossed on this stage
    to display gifts divine.
    Everyone a say
    Every man his day.

    Thy skills once locked in cage
    now unleashed!
    We cuddle and fold on this stage
    to fulfil our destinies.

    Like bees in hives
    our honey will unearth
    sweet worthy passions
    To cause the angels to sing
    chorus Holy!

    To cheer the virtues of mankind cause
    as they cross life's treacherous line.

    A claim to be worthy
    Our heavenly prize.

    copyright(c) 2014

    Godfrey Morris

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 64 Points Debra Robinson (6/13/2014 4:30:00 PM) Post reply

      Thank you for sharing this with us for comment. I know how difficult it is to share because it seems to many people want to attack instead of offering feedback. First, I am someone just like you, so ... more

  • Freshman - 2,455 Points Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi (6/7/2014 1:42:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    There is nothing left to give
    for I have nothing left at all
    but there is no emptiness within
    and I don't feel there is famine or fall

    colorful pictures of my past
    and grey clouds that did overcast
    cast their shadows, as I walk
    forever with me, I know, they would last

    there was a time
    when I felt ghost pains
    pins and needles,
    where nothing remained
    thankfully even
    that part is now gone
    vastness of sky
    will be mine from now on.

    Replies for this message:
    • Freshman - 2,455 Points Rajendra Raikar (12/13/2014 9:25:00 AM) Post reply

      portraying my past n present.....Touched... :)

    • Freshman - 2,455 Points Lalit Kaira (7/17/2014 8:26:00 PM) Post reply

      yes the colourful past that emptied but filled the heart with some biting pleasure we can't give away......... we only create assumption but can't hide the truth.. truth that is love for love is tru ... more

    • Freshman - 2,455 Points Keith Sifelani (6/7/2014 2:42:00 PM) Post reply

      You say your colourful past but i think nothing has changed.

  • Rookie - 134 Points Terrance Tracy (6/7/2014 1:11:00 AM) Post reply

    The Journey of a Lost Soul

    When I was younger hopes and dreams came into view, soon to vanish with the setting of the sun only to replay a surreal fantasy the next day.
    Exuberance of youth unbridled hopes and shackled dreams, desires of flesh chased each day.
    Loneliness and anger were my companions on a journey that led to nowhere, no reward for
    persistence just a barren desert to abide.
    A lost rock in a mountain of stone left alone never to be found by the Son that covers the soul.
    Forbidden fruits transitory for a season endows a lost soul with an insatiable hunger to be repeated every day with rich promises placed on an altar, though the confines of mind the altar's tomb, whispered in our ear by the watchers of power of darkness as we traverse the dark journey oblivious to the loss of innocence to remain unrepentant.
    Drunken by the wine we find a mine of dark tunnels to seek more to life than the void of darkness the alters of false promise provide; O is there a light in this endless maze for fertile valleys in which to graze.
    Stumbling and crawling in the abode of despair, from out of the gloom a glimpse of a light the darkness could not comprehend, bequeathed an egress, only to find the one who appears as an angel of light.
    Invitations of forgiveness awaits if one dares to journey across the lake of fire, the angel of light gloats his refrain, try as you might you are doomed to the night for you will never see the greater light, the Ancient of Days beckoning the lost soul to accept the true light.
    Terrance Tracy

  • Rookie - 0 Points Marietta Pereira (6/6/2014 11:29:00 PM) Post reply

    When the light of day softly fades away
    When that flaming ball of fire is all set to retire
    When children hasten home after play
    When tweet and chirp fly home yonder
    When bright city lights dispel the darkness of the night
    When the star spangled skies are a delight to the eyes
    Whenmoonbeams cast a silvery sheen.
    When work is done and the day’s race is run
    When we whisper a little prayer-
    Thank you dear God, for your love and care.
    Your blessings we seek everyday, everywhere!

    Marietta Pereira

  • Rookie - 0 Points Yusuf Qomor Olusola (6/6/2014 11:08:00 AM) Post reply


    Indeed; an inferno room it’s!
    A pandemonium room of chaotic corner
    Where hostages scream and groan
    The lack scream for shinning but transient wealth
    The wealthy groan for more
    The small brutalize the big
    In their hunt for materialism

    The blind join the search
    And chased relentlessly after
    A common mongrel
    A designed printed paper
    Myopic dreams of next ten decade
    When tomorrow, by his creator
    His soul shall be claimed

    The groaning grows much weary
    As the inferno room demands more trial
    From already-screaming hostages
    Behold and Chase me much more!
    “Said the printed paper to the blind”
    So I might drive thee
    Into the melancholic miserable cave
    Alas! screamers will soon disperse and march
    One by one to that silent but sullen hall
    Where suffering and agony reach no more
    And so his kinsmen will bid him: R.I.P

  • Rookie - 117 Points John Zwerenz (6/6/2014 10:05:00 AM) Post reply

    Mary, The Mother of God

    The scenery of Mary's Court is green, white and gold.
    Green are her trees, white is the sun,
    And gold is of The Spirit, containing every other hue.
    There are brooks which run, of azure blue
    Through her forests and her gardens, framed by regal eglantines
    And gilded, holy, gleaming moss.
    The brooks are of wines,
    And gently toss
    The reeds which play beneath the cloudless sky.
    The Palace of The Virgin
    Is heaven to the eye.
    Her Kingdom is devoid of everything old,
    And pertains to only that which is new.
    The glistening gloss
    Of the morning dew
    Is found in her palatial field
    Where her rosy bowers yield
    Perfumes of marigolds, daisies and gems.
    I met The Mother Of God donning diadems.
    Her long, black hair
    Is astonishing to behold,
    As if all gold
    Finds its temple there.
    Her crown is studded with immaculate jewels,
    Each the reward of a Saint's fidelity.
    With a tender love she commands all citadels,
    And all the angels glory in her beauty.
    All the Saints are in awe of her dusky, Jewish eyes.
    Her gazes outshine the bright, celestial skies.
    And her skin is fairer than all of heaven's blooms combined.
    Her song is that of such a charming sound
    That it leaves a man blind
    To what is all around.
    Her fingertips are of a pearly-white,
    And when she roves in her Court, beneath the purple stars of the gleaming night
    She smiles at her sons and daughters in that vast and holy square,
    Majestic and massive, made of marble and stone.
    Her perfumes are of honey, and permeate the midnight air.
    She rarely wishes to be alone,
    Except for the times she converses with Her Son,
    Pacing on the hallowed beach, where the streams
    Of violets swirl around her feet
    And run
    To the tranquil sea, beneath the terrace where the vines meet.
    She is often inclined
    To find
    Her desires
    In sacred dreams.
    Her passions are those of chaste, refreshing, cooling fires,
    Guided by her reason
    Endowed beyond the wisdom of every time and place,
    Of every world, of every season.
    Nothing, no one, save
    For God Himself
    Possesses such a lovely face
    Whose expressions are light, yet sometimes grave,
    Grave as in solemn,
    For there are many souls she wishes to save.
    She frequents earth and purgatory,
    And in the latter, where the flames torment and lave
    She wipes the sweaty brows
    Of the suffering Saints.
    And she often allows
    Their punishments to cease,
    Long before their time,
    Ages before their due release.
    She often graces the dawn with celestial paints
    When cathedral bells chime in the western wood.
    And she loves to say
    When the consecrated pray
    In their cloisters of rapture,
    Clad with lindens, willows, yews and birch:
    'God Bless The Holy Roman Catholic Church! -
    Its eternal truths be praised! '
    She cares very much for Jerusalem,
    Where she was born and raised,
    And she is anxious for Israel to acknowledge her Son.
    She opens petals, one by one,
    Merely by caressing them in her little garden-close,
    In the corner of her spacious Court.
    The scent of her beauteous body
    Is of an immaculate, dark-red rose.
    And the rhapsody of her flowing voice
    Is bestowed to transport
    The hearts of all the blessed,
    Enraptured without a choice,
    To the highest realm in heaven, of music, art and rhyme
    Where The Magnificat is sung
    Beneath the dome of God's Cathedral,
    Far beyond the realm of time.
    John Lars Zwerenz

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